


he and i don't mind the blood

by orphan_account



Series: are we made of moments or something more [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, I Don't Even Know, Language, Moral Dilemmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 21:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Karen makes a hard call.Frank helps without realizing it.Post Punisher Season 1.





	he and i don't mind the blood

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I'm writing this with sagging eyelids and I havent even read it sooooo. Enjoy?
> 
> Not super romancy. Sorry. I suck at that stuff.

 

The barrel of her handgun is lined up with the center of some creep’s forehead and she wonders how many times she'll have to do this. 

 

How many bloody decisions she’ll have to make, without time to run a cost-benefit analysis. 

 

How many split seconds she'll spend reminding (convincing) herself that her life is worth fighting for, even if it's a fight to the death. 

 

Then she stops wondering, remembers the safety is on, thinks  _ shit  _ thinks  _ can he tell that I'm shaking?  _ Then she makes a show of clicking off the safety, like she meant to have it on before, because screw subtlety. She's the one with the gun here, she shouldn't be the one who's too scared to move.

 

(But she should. Just because she's done it before doesn't mean she wants to do it again.) 

 

She remembers hearing somewhere that you should aim for the body. Something like, “you're not a sharpshooter, headshots are ambitious and risky.” 

 

Briefly, she wonders if there's something wrong with her, because this only encourages her to aim for the head. She almost wants to miss, wants to be able to say she tried without dealing with the consequences of trying.   _ She almost wants to miss.  _

 

He's still frozen, offering her a still target, eyes wide with surprise more so than fear; he makes his living picking easy targets, and this one isn't all that easy. She allows herself to feel a hint of smugness, then she remembers why he's surprised - it’s because the pretty little blonde (her) is holding him (a kidnapping scumbag, and that’s just what was made immediately apparent) at gunpoint, and she's weighing her options, trying to think of a universal code of ethics, all to reach the ultimate conclusion that she has to pull the trigger. 

 

And she does. She has to.

 

Because...

 

Because she just doesn't trust herself to multitask, to keep him stationary and at arm's length while digging through her pocket book to call good old 911, to explain the situation to a calm voiced officer at the precinct. And who knows how long she'd be standing here, arms getting shakier, his expression growing less surprised and more spiteful, waiting for the unpleasant scream and flash of police sirens. Too many things could happen in that space of time, too many awful things. Right now she has the upper hand and even that isn't enough to calm her racing heart or make her feel like she isn't drowning in horrible possibilities.

 

One. Two. I don't want to kill another man.

 

Three. Four. God, am I a murderer now?

 

Five. Six. Is this the only way or the easy way?

 

Seven. Eight. Hell, if this is the easy way…

 

Then he makes it easy. Pulls a knife, lunges forward.

 

Nine. Ten.  _ Bang. Bang. Bang… bang.  _

  
  


_ ****** _

  
  


Bloody water swirls down the drain of Karen’s bathroom sink, and again she curses herself for getting close enough to her assailant's body to dirty herself with his blood. The last thing she needs right now is a symbolic washing off of the afternoon’s events, turning blood red hands white. But she wanted to know his name. Wanted to check his phone for suspicious contacts and cryptic text messages. She found nothing, and she still wants to know - she can deal with the blood a lot better if she knows why it's on her hands, what her bullets saved her (and other future victims) from. 

 

Karen's getting used to the sight of other people’s blood, but not to causing it. Not at all. She'll never get used to spilling blood. 

 

And yet.

 

She looks in the mirror and doesn't flinch. Scrubbing the red tinge from her fingernails doesn't set her to weeping. She isn't damning herself to hell. 

 

Her calmness is completely unexpected, the way her heart is thumping steadily, and the fact that her 9mm is now floating in the river seems unimportant now, like she watched it sink underwater years ago. She doesn't care if they can trace the bullets to the gun - she hadn't gotten around to registering it (it was a parting gift from Frank, who she's refusing to think about almost religiously). Luckily for her, the 9mm Ruger happened to fit inside her crossbody bag this morning when she couldn't quite wedge the .38 in with her much needed makeup (the under-eye bags are getting bad) and her wallet (fat with coupons and receipts and singles). 

 

Nothing about the scene would implicate Karen Page. And the fact that she's relieved by that should be concerning. The fact that, like last time, she didn't call the authorities should also be concerning. All of this should be concerning, should be scarring, should be leaving her the nervous, shaking mess that she was last time. 

 

James Wesley. Kidnapper John Doe. 

 

Who else will Karen Page add to her list? 

 

How long before she doesn't feel at all, starts notching her gun handle after each kill? 

 

She should not be okay. But for some reason, she is. 

 

(The calm before the storm.) 

  
  


******

  
  


She knew the tears would come but she didn't think it would happen here, at the coffee shop on the way to work, when the barista calls out “Vanilla latte for Karen!” and she's fucking positive that she hears him whisper “murderer" under his breath when he hands her the paper cup. 

 

She's never been delusional. Her conscience manifests in the same straightforward, take-no-shit manner that she's recently made her way of life. Hearing things is not characteristic of Karen Page and delayed bursts of guilt aren't either. 

 

The thing is… if she's honest, she doesn't know. She is not a murderer, Karen is (almost) certain. Premeditation and malice and blah blah blah - that label doesn't quite fit. 

 

She's just not okay yet. Not with all of this, not with what her life (past, present, and future) has become. 

 

That's when she feels the wet streams running down either side of her nose and makes awkward eye contact with the barista who made her a heavenly smelling latte and did not call her a murderer, and she realizes that while she was logically piecing together her feelings, her tear ducts were busy with their own reaction. So Karen laughs sharply, wipes a hand hastily across her cheeks, and drops a few dollars tip on the counter. 

 

“Thanks again,” she mutters. Even though she didn't say thanks beforehand, so the word ‘again’ wasn't applicable. It's irrelevant. Whatever. 

 

She's allowed to have an off-morning the day after… making a hard call. 

 

Then Frank Fucking-Shitbag-Never-Calls-The-People-Who-Care-About-Him-Douche-Moron Castle  fills her thoughts. 

 

_ “Really, Karen. Shit, you of all people oughtta able to call it like it fucking is. “A hard call"? You chose to live, fucking chose yourself. You think, you think that's unspeakable or somethin’? That you oughtta be ashamed about that, not admit that's what happened?  _

 

_ C’mon, Page.”  _

 

Shut up Frank. 

 

Frank. 

 

She misses Frank. 

 

And yeah, she had resolved that she wasn't going to admit it or think about it. After seeing his face all over the news, she'd moved her roses to the window, hoping he'd drop by and let her know he's okay, he has a plan. Then she’d added a vase of tulips, because the roses weren't enough. Then she’d closed her curtains, opened them again, moved the flowers away, pulled out her hair. Fuck him if he’s ignoring her, trying to “keep her safe" by killing her with worry. Fuck him if he just hadn't been by, because she’s pretty damned sure she's worth a few extra blocks and a stop on the way home. (Any other possibilities for his inactivity are not allowed. If it's not because he's an asshole who doesn't think people give a shit, she denies that it's a potential reason.) 

 

But something about crises and conflicts make her keenly aware of how much he matters. Because she can meet his eyes in the midst of anything, and not evade or edit the story to make it okay, to make him okay with her. And if needing that makes her selfish, so fucking be it. 

 

Because if she's a monster, then he's fucking satan. And she's already decided he's not satan, not a monster, not evil, barely even bad. 

 

Something about making hard calls and missing Frank Castle go hand in hand. 

 

Frank I've-Killed-A-Hundred-Different-Ways-And-I’m-Not-Sorry Castle. 

 

Frank Hard-Calls-Are-My-Specialty Castle.

 

_ “There you go with that “hard call" shit again. God, Karen, would you rather be dead?” _

 

(Fine,  _ killing _ . I know Frank. But that's a hard call. Just give me this, okay?) 

  
  


******

  
  


She writes an article on the gray areas of morality, demanding that someone offer up an objective moral standard before we all go insane. It’s an article well suited for Hell’s Kitchen, but it lacks the inspiring edge that Karen has established as her signature element. 

 

Ellison raises his eyebrow. “Don't you think our poor readers are depressed enough?” 

 

It's an editorial, not front page material because blatant opinion pieces never are, but he gives it the second page and omits the 5 Fast Beauty Tips pitch from Tyler (pen name: Jolene Brady) to make room for her substantial word count. Karen figures she's done the world two favors by calling their attention to the issue of morality itself, and in the process sparing the lovely women of Hell’s Kitchen a shallow, straight man’s beauty opinions. 

 

(Fast Tip 1: Natural beauty is always best! Keep it looking effortless, ladies! ‘I Tried Really Hard’ is not a look to shoot for!) 

 

Yes, she has really done this city a solid.

  
  


******

 

Her article wasn't addressed to Frank. It wasn't about him whatsoever. The Punisher was not referenced or defended, the failure of the justice system on behalf of the Castle family was not an aspect. 

 

But it gets Frank's attention anyway. 

  
  


******

  
  


He's sitting in the coffee shop he knows she frequents (he’s lucky she still does, after the crying episode and all), and he's holding the article she published two days prior. 

 

She does not need this, not today, not on Monday morning on her way to work after a miserable weekend of laying in bed trying to be okay and halfway successfully escaping reality by way of any drama she could find starring Brad Pitt. He's not her type, but he's pretty, and it's easy to lose herself in his starry blue eyes through her laptop screen. 

 

But she really, really, really does need this. She's needed it since the last time she saw him when he saved her life and then he rested his forehead against hers before disappearing up the elevator shaft. 

 

But she's also really, really, really pissed off. Because he knows what the fucking news was broadcasting, how he was up to his fucking eyeballs in shit with both the good guys and the bad guys, how he could easily be dead or in custody or in Argentina on a horse ranch. 

 

And she had no way of knowing, no way of finding out, without him telling her.

 

And he waited this long to do it. 

 

Fuck him. Literally and figuratively. (Really, Karen? Now you're gonna go there?) 

 

Frank finally looks up from his apparently fascinating cup of coffee and sees her standing there, smiling incredulously despite herself but eyes still fiery with conflicting emotions (namely excited and pissed). 

 

He smiles softly, not bothering with stoicism this particular morning, and stands up to greet her.

 

Karen's stomach flips. And she grinds her teeth. And she lets his arms envelope her without the uncertainty that was always there before, lets her ready and waiting tirade take a backseat for a few minutes. Because Frank is here and he's alive and he's got an honest to God smile on his face and his bruises are all fading away and leaving healthy, unbroken skin.

 

Because maybe everything can be good now. He can make things good. They can make things good. (Getting ahead of yourself there, Karen. It was a forehead touch on an elevator. And before that it was a pleading kiss on the cheek. And before that it was an unexpected hug. And before that…)

 

Then he pulls away and his face is unreadable as he holds up her moral crisis article. “What's up with this bullshit, Page?”

 

If only she'd known weeks ago that with Frank Castle, a vague, angsty article accomplished more than a fucking pre-established system of communication. Then maybe she would have taken to the newspaper to fall apart over whether veganism is the only acceptable diet for the true humanitarian, so Frank would come sit at her coffee shop and wait to tell her that the whole thing is bullshit.

 

So much for putting her anger on hold. 

 

“You-" she pauses, runs over her first enraged sentence, perfects the stinging last words.

 

And he's chewing on his lip, trying not to smile, eyes sparkling just a little more than she thought they ever would again. 

 

What's the point?

 

“-asshole,” she finishes, the insult coming out flat and void of rage. 

 

“No argument there,” he agrees. He stands there for another moment, looking at her thoughtfully, before he slides back into the booth and gestures for her to take the seat opposite him. 

 

“I have to go to work, Frank. It's seven thirty on a Monday,” she says dryly, accepting the offered seat nonetheless. 

 

The sparkle has left his eye and the soft smile has left his lips by now, like it was too much happiness to risk expressing at once, it must be rationed. It changes the mood considerably. Karen considers returning to her rant.

 

She settles on a subdued version.

 

“It's really great to see you, Frank. To finally be sure that you're not shot full of holes or missing a chunk of your brain. Or incarcerated. Or fleeing the country.” Karen hopes her tone sounds as hard as it feels in her throat. 

 

He nods. Acknowledges her point. Turns to look out the window at the really fucking interesting back parking lot with 4 spaces for employees and a nice big dumpster. 

 

She waits for a response. And yeah, she knows he's not a wordsmith for a living like she is and that he has to think things through, formulate a response that doesn't give the wrong impression, but the pile of sarcasm she shovelled him requires a simple apology and explanation, not deep reflections complete with vacant window stares. 

 

Or maybe she's just on edge.

 

Maybe seeing him here and whole and smiling at the sight of her is pulling her out of the slump she's been in, and the thought that his face and six words in his voice can do that? 

 

It's great. It's scary. 

 

Because she made a hard call and for the first time since it happened, five minutes passed and it didn't cross her mind. Somehow she can look at him without feeling guilty. 

 

“Look, Karen.”

 

He speaks. Will wonders never cease? 

 

“Yes, Frank?” 

 

“It was a long couple of weeks. After the whole media explosion. I had shitbags to deal with. And… you know how that goes. Kinda.” 

 

She does know, and not just kinda. Sure, it's not like him - she's no Punisher, not in any sense of the name. But she's got more experience than being admittedly okay with someone else pulling triggers without a license to kill. She's pulled the trigger herself, and not just once. 

 

Suddenly she just wants to cry again, not because she feels guilty or she thought she heard “murderer", but because Frank is here and if she told him everything he'd still be here, still look at her with that earnest expression like he doesn't want to miss a move she makes or a word she says. 

 

But she doesn't cry, because he makes everything okay. They make everything good. 

 

“I know. I get it.”

 

He nods once, meets her eyes. The clock on the far wall behind him is ticking audibly, reminding her that life goes on even when she's sitting across from the Punisher, that it's seven fifty-six on a Monday morning and she has places to go.

 

Karen lingers a few minutes longer, though. Let's the silence continue to wash away her fears. 

 

She doesn't have to say anything or tell him about what happened, about her hard call. And he doesn't have to tell her what he did, who he killed, the deals he did or didn't make or the shit he nearly drowned in. 

 

There's time for that.

 

In the meantime, she can breathe, because she knows it won't make a difference. He doesn't mind the blood, and neither does she. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
